


The Family Jewels

by giuseppimezzoalto



Category: Humantale - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Humantale, Gen, I'm tired, Past Abuse, slight transphobia as well? it's very subtle but. i don't want to give anyone an Unpleasant surprise, warnings also for.... menacing of elderly people?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 20:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14961575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giuseppimezzoalto/pseuds/giuseppimezzoalto
Summary: After ten years without contact, Mettaton visits his father in a retirement home.





	The Family Jewels

**Author's Note:**

> WHOO, here's something niche if ever i saw it. it's father's day and i'm feeling Horrible, so i bashed out a cathartic little drabble. i hope this all makes sense, given that it's centred on my Very Expansive But Never Talked About headcanons for human MTT and his family; but i hope it can give someone a good read, and maybe even a little comfort nonetheless? 
> 
> not proofread so i apologise for any mistakes

“Did you not think I’d come, daddy? You look so  _surprised_!” 

It’s said with a mellifluous little titter, as an inordinately huge bouquet of roses are set down on the dresser. 

“I think one of the nurses is supposed to be bringing a vase. A crystal one, I should hope. Nothing but the best for my  _baba_.” 

There’s still not a word from the man in the chair; and that’s enough to draw a sigh from the one who’d just entered, who taps a well manicured nail against the dresser for a stagnant few seconds, then sits, beside the occupied chair. 

“You look well, all things considered. Seems they’ve been taking good care of you. Though you’ve hardly made use of the facilities.” The younger one offers a sweeping gesture around the space; it’s a beautifully furnished room-- but devoid of any personal touch, save for the small shrine in the corner. A little rich, given that the choice of extras and activities for the residents here is almost  _boundless_. But Mettaton’s father’s always been a stubborn piece of work like that. “Seems a bit of a waste, don’t you think?” 

“I don’t know why you’ve come.” 

“Ah! Contact at last,” the star snickers, and leans back in the chair, regarding his father. “I was fairly certain you weren’t the type to make the sudden choice to observe a vow of silence in your twilight years. You’d never get by.” 

The elderly man raises his head, finally, and the anticipation that lurches in the pit of Mettaton’s stomach doesn’t know whether it’s nervous or excited. But the look Avinash gives him isn’t cold, or angry-- just  _vacant_. 

He could have done with a bit of this docility when he’d been younger. 

There’s a nervous rap on the door before either of them can open their mouths. It makes Avinash twitch in his chair, but Mettaton just touches his arm ever so briefly, rising primly from his seat, given how difficult he knows it would be for his father to do the same. 

It’s another resident. A slip of a man, spindly and tall like a growing tree, who rasps out that he’d heard rumours Mettaton would be here and holds out a card in his pale hands, whispering that his granddaughter would be overjoyed to have his autograph as he clutches his IV. And Mettaton’s all too happy to oblige, of course, with all his usual charm. It’s become a bit of a mechanical process, scrawling out his name in loopy cursive with the marker he can’t get away with not having on him these days - a curly cross through the ‘t’s, and a little heart or star at the bottom, depending on his mood that day - but it truly never gets to be any less flattering. And he expresses such by thanking the man with a radiant smile, giving him a squeeze on the shoulder and pointing him to his waiting PA, who he insists will be more than happy to give him a few signed prints to send on. 

“No rest for the wicked, mm?” Mettaton chuckles as he presses the door closed, rolling his shoulders and turning back to where his father’s sat. There’s no response for a good few seconds, so it’s all the more surprising when a shaking, freckled hand flies out in a clear motion to stop. 

“Why visit? You have paid... far,  _far_  too much money for me to  _be_  here already. And this is after...  _nothing_ , after I do not hear from you for almost  _ten years_. Do not pretend that you are happy to see me.”

“Oh, now don’t talk like  _that_! That’s just depressing! Does a boy really need a reason to come see his father?” 

“I  _see_  you every day,” Avinash says back a little too quickly, jabbing a thumb in the direction of a stack of magazines clearly provided by the home. It’s a little buried, but that’s  _unmistakably_  one of Mettaton’s Versace boots protruding from beneath shots of smiling old folks and gardens.

“Hm. I think that one was  _Vanity Fair_ ,” the star muses nonchalantly, taking a seat once more in spite of the way his father’s shoulders stiffen. “It must be ever so  _strange_  for you,  _baba_. Seeing me everywhere. And probably  _hearing_  about me, too!”

He crosses his legs over, not missing the way Avinash’s eyes dart tersely down to his preposterously tall platforms, and there’s a glint in his eyes now, something that stretches a little beyond bouquets of roses and afternoon visits. 

“They must ask you if you’re proud  _all the time_. I feel like it could get almost  _tiring_!” he goes on, resting his chin in his palm, a perfect picture of calm. “They probably can’t believe it, can they? I imagine it’s a constant stream of ‘Avinash, you must be so proud of your  _son_.'”

And there’s that twitch again. But this time, the sight of it’s like music to Mettaton’s ears.

“What’s  _that_  like?” 

“I am grateful for your generosity, but I am sure you are far too  _busy_  to be here,” the older man grinds out quickly, those frail hands looking a little  _tense_  with the way they’re gripping the armrests. “Please, do not spend any more of your time--” 

“Oh, not at  _all_! What kind of  _son_  would I be if I didn’t check in  _personally_ \-- and after all that  _surgery_ , too--” 

“ _No._  No--” There’s tension in Avinash’s brow as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, looking almost as though he might be trying to stand, but simply lacks the strength. “ _Ten_  years, and you decide you-- I do not hear a  _word_!! The last thing you had said to me was that you wanted  _nothing_  to do with me, you-- you said if you never saw me again, that it would be too soon.  _Why,_ then, do you  _appear_  out of thin air, showing your-- all your  _money_ , the  _moment_  I am taken to the hospital--”

“Well, once Uncle Prem told me, I could hardly--” 

“ _No_ , no more of this--  _pretend_  nonsense,  _phuul_ , there is no one here to  _pretend_  for.” The old pet name slips out in the midst of his frustration, and there’s a flash of pure  _resentment_  in Mettaton’s eyes-- and the sight of it makes Avinash point his hand, jaw set. “ _There_.  _That_  is the child I know, none of these  _pleasantries_  when we have not spoken one  _single word_  in almost a decade. When there was no ‘checking in  _personally_ ’for ten years, why did one trip to the hospital--”

“Oh, because where would the  _fun_  be in letting you go out like that?” Mettaton snaps, the fury in his gaze matching Avinash’s in a way that makes it almost hard to believe they’d gone so long without laying eyes on one another. “If I’d have left you to it, what would have happened, mm? You’ve got no insurance. It’d have been a matter of time-- and not  _much_  time at that. And then what? You’d have gone out happily resenting me from afar. You’d have  _died_  fully content in being able to say you’d had nothing to do with that  _person_  on all the billboards who parades around in nothing and has people call him a man. How  _boring_  would it have been to let you distance yourself from your little  _disgrace_ like that?” 

Avinash’s hand flies for the call button on the wall, but Mettaton catches it with a shocking dexterity, leaning in close with smouldering rage written across his face.

“You know, it’s funny, really, isn’t it, daddy; all those people you used to hate for their ‘ludicrous’ lifestyles, the ones who you always said how it was a wonder they didn’t drown in all their champagne and diamonds? That’s  _me_  now, that’s  _my_  life,” he hisses, jabbing a finger repeatedly into his own chest. 

“And how are you  _ever_  going to forget that? After all, even if I tipped you out of that chair and kicked that vile,  _bigoted_ head in, it wouldn’t come close to even  _half_  the hurt you did  _me_.” Mettaton scoffs like there’s anything remotely funny about this, and shakes his head. “Does that feel  _good_ ,  _baba_? I’ve wondered that a lot. Whether you feel  _good_  about how you managed to turn that  _shoddy little flat_  into more of a  _hell_  than you would think was possible--”

“You  _cannot_ s--”

“No! You know what? I don’t  _care_. I don’t care, I don’t want to  _hear_  it!” Mettaton laughs, even though his voice is getting to sound rather  _choked_  as he abruptly stands _._  “And I don’t  _have_  to. I don’t ever have to hear your voice again! But you’ll hear mine--”

His hands are on the armrests of Avinash’s chair with a force that makes the legs screech against the floor. 

\-- _every_  time one of these people turns on a radio. And you’ll  _have_  to think about  _everything_  I’ve done, and all the things I’ve  _achieved_ with you trying to hold me back  _every step of the way_ ,” he spits, just as a tear rolls down his cheek. “You won’t be able to pass a  _day_  without knowing that my  _pocket change_  is the reason you’re  _still here_.”

He snaps back to his full height then, swiping the wetness from under his eye before it can make a mess of his makeup, completely still for a few seconds, save for the rise and fall of his shoulders. 

And when he glances up, composed, it feels  _eerily_  like the last five minutes hadn’t even happened.

“You’re in retirement somewhere that most people could only  _dream_ of,  _baba_. So please, from the bottom of my heart,  _enjoy it_ ,” he says softly, kissing his fingertips and pressing them to the back of his father’s hand. “Because, it  _all_ came from  _me_. And you won’t be able to forget that for a  _moment_.” 

There’s a hesitant knock at the door, followed by a nurse’s nervous face peering around it. A few seconds pass where they simply stare at Mettaton, having apparently forgotten how to use their mouth, but they’re quick to stumble in, vase in hand. 

“I-I’m, uhm. I’m sorry if I’m interrupting--” 

“You’re just fine, darling. I was heading out anyway.”


End file.
